


arapha de genere lupum

by greyingwarden



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Erratic Updates, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Slow To Update, Stark kids unabashedly terrifying everyone, Time Travel, direwolves, feral Stark kids
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-06-02 13:58:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 12,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19442842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greyingwarden/pseuds/greyingwarden
Summary: Everything seems to boil to a head when her three eldest and the bastard go on a ride, just the four of them, and come back with a direwolf, her six pups, and a dead stag.





	1. Chapter 1

The amount of wolfblood in her children scares Catelyn, sometimes. Despite being red of hair and blue of eye, the Tully look, sans Arya, they all have the same wildness about them, boiling in their veins just under the surface. Each child emerges into their heritage around their fourth name day, all save Rickon, who was born wild. Even the bastard, as much as Catelyn is wroth to admit it, has the same sharpness; it reminds her of Brandon, and if the servants whispers of Lord Brandon and Lady Dayne are heard correctly, it’s not just her. The boy, if the sun reflects off the snow just so, has a tint of purple in his eyes and it sends ice down her spine each time. 

Her lord husband is not quite sure what to make of it, she knows. They never speak of it in as many words, but Catelyn catches the look of nostalgia and fear when he gazes upon them all.

They are frightening, both to their parents and those in Winterfell, as well as those who visit. Whip smart and silver tongued, all of them. Robb was seemingly born with the hilt of a sword in his palm, and Maester Luwin has sped up his learning by moons upon moons and years upon years. No one has mentioned since the first few times that he never fails to flinch every time he hears a _fwip_ of an arrow leaving a bow. The bastard holds himself with steel in his spine, a quietness not unlike Ned about him, but his eyes are sharp and not nearly as cold as they should be. 

Sansa picks up embroidery without pause, almost surpassing herself and Septa Mordane in less than a moon. Catelyn happens upon her one evening, far past the time that she had tucked her in, shooting arrow after arrow at a target. Even from her distance Catelyn could see the blood on Sansa’s fingertips from the never ending practice. It unnerves her, the almost inhuman, or perhaps entirely _too_ human, look in her eldest daughter’s eyes. She doesn’t bring it up to Ned, so disquieted she is, and eventually she can tell that he found her at some point as well. He does not bring it up to her, either. 

Arya is almost as wild as young Rickon, but in a silent way. She’s all bared teeth and sharp claws and nonexistent, never making a sound when she does not want to be found. There is an intensity to her that sets everyone on edge, all save her siblings. Robb will fluff her hair and all she will do is mock a snarl. The bastard would throw an arm around her shoulder and Arya would sink into his side, head butting his torso. Sansa and she bicker back and forth, but there is no ice and no heat, just sickly sweet smiles and laughing eyes. The oddest relationships she has are with her youngest brothers; Arya and Bran almost always have a healthy, comfortable silence between them. They both respect each other, for whatever reason Catelyn could not begin to guess. Everyone knows better than to get between Arya and Rickon, and that’s that. 

Bran is by far her oddest, most unsettling child. Sometimes, he will look without truly seeing, and yet somehow he sees too much. Catelyn doesn’t put much stake in Old Nan’s stories, but when she mentions greenseers, she thinks _maybe…_

The Wild Wolf is a moniker that has already been assigned to Rickon. Despite him being of her womb, Catelyn doesn’t know what to think of her youngest. In the first few moons after he began speaking, he would howl a mournful word that she could not make heads or tails of. Whatever it was, only his siblings and the bastard seemed to know and if they were in the area, they would always comfort him. It stung a bitter note in her every time the bastard could sooth her child while she could not.

Everything seems to boil to a head when her three eldest and the bastard go on a ride, just the four of them, and come back with a direwolf, her six pups, and a dead stag. 

It devolves into chaos in an instant.


	2. Chapter 2

Shouts sound and the direwolf snarls and arrows are pointed— Robb just barely suppressed a flinch and—

“ _Stand down_!” Robb orders, a deep frown marring his face, eyes cold as he stares down a multitude of archers. There is fear in the eyes of every single person around them; more than usual, in any case. He tries to keep his eyes from focusing on the arrowheads. 

He has become used to the way that his father’s men, the men Robb had gone to war with once before, treaded lightly around his siblings and himself. Used to it though he may be, it never failed to disappoint him that his men were scared of _children_. His men were not this frightened at the _wedding_ and yet—

Sansa’s shoulder brushes against his upper arm and he forces himself to remove himself from his thoughts and relax, tearing his gaze from the arrows to the faces of his father’s men, pushing down the echoes of Mother’s screaming and his wife’s—

They continue to hold their bows aloft, ignoring his command or mayhaps being too frightened of the direwolf to heed his words. 

“Stand _down_!” Arya’s higher pitched voice carries further and makes the closest men cringe, in turn making her bare her teeth in a mockery of a snarl, “She’s not going to hurt anyone!”

Jon muffles a snort of laughter as a cough that fools no one.

With just two strides, Sansa places herself in front of the mother and no doubt puts on a pleading expression. 

“ _Please_ ,” 

Robb resists the urge to roll his eyes skyward. Sansa was no doubt a master manipulator, unsettlingly so, but already resorting to tears? She was laying it on a bit thick, in his opinion. If Arya’s quiet snicker was taken into consideration, she thought so as well. 

“She has not harmed us! _Please_ stand down.”

Most of the archers falter. Robb scans the area, picking out each who don’t and takes names; Lord Stark’s three eldest children had spoken the same command and they still did not listen. He almost urges Jon to speak, but knows that they would not listen; and, again, a piece of him grows bitter and he hates these men that are no longer his just a bit more.

He can see Mother approaching, a look of abject horror stretching across her face, eyes wide, _hands clawing down her cheeks_ —

Forcibly, he turns his head and focuses on Father advancing toward them, hand on the pommel of the sword by his side. He can see grey eyes jumping from him, holding an armful of pups, to Sansa who’s all but physically shielding the direwolf mother from the archers, to Arya who can barely see over her armful of pups, to Jon who has Ghost in one hand and the lead of the horse with the dead stag tied to its back in the other. 

“Father,” Robb greets. 

He can see the mother tracking Father’s form, and, when he comes to a pause in front of Robb, she brushes past Sansa. The less confident archers lower their bows and reach toward their swords. 

She ignores them. Silently plodding onward, the direwolf sits between Robb and his father. He’s reminded of Sansa’s early words, which spurned the whole plot to save the she-wolf; _There are seven Starks in Winterfell, now_.

Robb has to take a step to the side to see around the large wolf. He was not particularly cursed in height, but even while sitting, the she-wolf is massive. 

Father’s face is almost unreadable. He can see fear burning bright in his eyes, concern for his children clear, and, interestingly enough, the sense of an expectation brought to life. 

Perhaps Robb and his siblings were becoming predictable. 

He takes a step forward and a low, rumbling growl sounds. Robb can only imagine the mother’s lips curling up to expose yellowed teeth and he thinks, mayhaps, Sansa is wrong. 

In a spare moment of thought, Robb throws caution to the wind, shifts the pups into one arm, steps beside her and places his palm in between the direwolf’s haunches. 

“Be still,” He says lowly, “He will harm naught us, nor your pups.”

He can feel through her fur as the resonant sound dies down. She tilts her head toward him, startlingly vivid yellow eyes meeting his, and she seems to acquiesce.

“Robb.”

Robb lifts his gaze, meets his father’s eyes, and begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO y’all asked for it and here it is. I tried to do some research to more accurately write from Robb’s POV since I haven’t read the books in a While and. Guess what. GRRM never wrote a single fuckin Robb POV chapter so Hopefully this is okay
> 
> Also. I like the trope of the mother direwolf bonding to Ned but not this time! If a certain someone was still alive, that’s who she would be bonded to but since Ned is close enough, she won’t hate him
> 
> Let me know how this flowed? It’s been a while since I’ve written so it’ll definitely take a little while to start producing longer chapters
> 
> Next us is Jon’s POV, I think


	3. Chapter 3

It is a great weight lifted from his shoulders to finally have Ghost back. Jon had known the very second his companion had taken his first breath; it had been early in the morn, the sun just barely peeking through the trees, and he had nearly choked on his inhale. That had been nearly a moon ago. That whole moon saw Jon fidgeting and impatient, with his siblings not far behind him. Rickon had been howling and crying for Shaggy more and more often since his direwolf entered the world, and Jon couldn’t blame him. If he was any less controlled, he would have gone to find Ghost the second he was awoken.

But, now, Jon has his best friend back, and there’s a fullness to his chest that he had not realized he was missing. He would have to ask the others if they felt the same, after Robb answered Father’s questions.

The man who raised him as his own, his uncle. For the first few years after returning, anger simmered just under his skin for Lord Eddard Stark and Jon still hates himself for it, just a little. He had heard stories of Robert Baratheon and his vast hatred of dragonspawn, despite having dragon blood in his own veins. Jon has no doubt that if he had more of the Targaryen look, he would have been killed the instant Baratheon had gotten word of it.

Jon still remembers the look on his father’s face the first time he had called him _Lord Stark_ to his face. He made up his mind that moment that he would only call him Father, for he was the only father he had ever known.

Shaking his head ever so slightly to clear his thoughts, Jon focuses on Robb and his father. The eldest Stark seems to have accepted whatever explanation Robb gave to him, thankfully. Arya is still glaring murder at the men with bows drawn tight and swords lifted. There is a tightness in Sansa’s shoulders that Jon can see from here and he tries not to frown. Despite the multitude of years they had been back, Jon thinks that Sansa has not yet revealed the entirety of what happened in King’s Landing to anyone but Arya. Bran, he knows, had the full story while Sansa was still there. The little knowledge Jon has is still enough to know why she mislikes having any sort of bow near her that is not in her own hand.

Finally, it’s Father’s order that makes his men stand down, however slowly and reluctantly it may be. Both Robb and Sansa seem to relax and Jon is beyond thankful; seeing his sibling tense with discomfort and hidden fear sets him on edge like nothing else can. Jon isn’t quite sure how he tells as there are no outward signs, but even Ghost’s mother relaxes as if she understands the words spoken.

“You will all be assisting the kennelmaster and learning how to properly care for the… direwolves.” Father continues along the same line as he had, all those years ago. All rules that they had heard, before. Jon could hardly believe his siblings would ever mistreat their companions the first time, much less now. 

Finishing, their father draws his attention, “Jon, please take the stag to the kitchens.”

“Yes, Father.” Jon says in unison with his siblings.

Robb catches his eye as he clicks his tongue, urging the horse forward. His brother shifts Grey Wind and Summer in his arms to make room and Jon, ever so slightly hesitant, hands Ghost over to him. Despite having opened his eyes by the time they found him last time, this time Ghost’s bright red eyes are only halfway open. Still, they were clear and comprehending and altogether too intelligent for a pup that was barely more than a moon old.

“I will be back soon.” Jon tells him softly, brushing his thumb over Ghost’s cheek.

Ghost stares at him and turns to lick his palm.

Jon scritches him under his chin, “Good boy, Ghost.” And then, so quietly only Robb and the pups could hear, “I have missed you.”

Robb’s lips quirk up, and in similar quietness he says, “We all have, Snow.”

He returns the smile, “A blind man could see that, Stark.”

His brother barks a laugh before shooing him away, “Go, Jon, and meet us in the kennels. The bitch likes you and Father best, I think.”

Jon stealthily sends a hand gesture his way, aware of the many eyes surrounding them.

Over his shoulder as he walks away, he tells Robb, “Tell the kennelmaster that I’ll bring her some cuts from the stag.”

“Do _not_ give her the prime cuts, Snow!” Robb, seemingly reading his thoughts, calls after him. 

Jon wants to say _no, those are Sansa’s since it was her kill_ , but instead he just smiles and does not bother to hide it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know. “Jay, you just said a week ago you weren’t sure if you would continue this and now you’re posting two chapters in one day????” Well. Jon is a hell of a lot easier to write than Robb
> 
> Also
> 
> Ghost is the goodest boy 23/10 would pet again


	4. Chapter 4

Sansa has picked up many habits along both the years of before and the years of now. She learns the bow to spite the memory of Joffrey and Ramsay, as well as to better protect herself; she is no longer the naive girl wishing for a knight to save her. The majority of the knights she had known would sooner harm than protect. Despite their level of cowardice or honor, Sansa had learned, all men died in the end. _Valar morghulis_ , Arya had taught her, and she could almost smile at how true it was. All men must die, indeed, whether doing good or evil deeds it mattered not.

She has learned much from her sister. How to cast on a new farce better than any mummer, the habit of listing all she wishes to die before sleep claims her, and, with assistance from Jon and Bran, how to warg. It takes her longer than it had ever taken any of her siblings, something they all silently attribute to spending such a short amount of time with Lady. It takes Sansa near seven moons after Bran returns to purposely warg her first animal, a fox with downy, white fur and bright amber eyes. A full year passes before she can reliably place herself into any animal. Another four moons before Sansa can warg into an animal that she cannot see in front of her. From there, it takes an additional six moons before she wargs into one of Ramsay Bolton’s hounds and, ever so slowly, eats him alive, tearing flesh from muscle and muscle from bone and, in essence, flaying him. Mayhaps she is sick and mad, for she has no regrets nor guilt. 

The day it happens, Arya and Bran give her knowing looks and, unsurprisingly, there are lemoncakes served after they sup. Robb treats her oddly when word spreads to Winterfell, not knowing the full extent of the Bolton's reign of terror, and Jon looks as if someone poured snow into his clothing, caught off guard but not terribly surprised. Despite that, she sings while she stitches for the next week, setting all save her siblings on edge. _What a strange girl_ , they all whisper when they think she cannot hear.

Her training in changing skins proves beyond useful for setting up to remove the next name from the list Arya inspired her to make. Ramsay’s hound is still alive and making his way more and more south by the day, and, with her occasional guidance, attacks murderers and rapists and abusers. Word has long since spread that the rabid hound that killed Roose Bolton’s bastard is prowling the King’s Road in the North. So much fear had spread that her lord father had sent his men out to put the beast down, only to come back empty handed. 

When the time comes for direwolves to once again re-enter Winterfell, Sansa is positively brimming with anticipation. She could feel her attention and eyes drawn toward the Wolfswood more often than not, could practically feel Lady’s heart beat in time with her own, finally swelling to a crescendo when she looses her arrow into the eye of the stag. She pushes back a sob when she sees Lady for the first time in this life, grateful that her siblings do not look at her with pity at the noise that does escape her. 

It was a long trek back to Winterfell on foot, but Sansa could not find it in her to complain. They had vastly underestimated how skittish the horses would be around the direwolf. Only one could bare to be within ten meters of her and was thusly used to secure the stag onto, with Jon leading them. 

By the time they reached the gates of Winterfell, the sun was already beginning to set. Sansa watches Father and the direwolf interact and smothers a frown. Clearly, her theory was incorrect; mayhaps Father would not be able to warg her, but only time would tell. 

Sansa wipes away her false tears as she and her siblings migrate towards the kennels. Bran has already joined them, taking Summer gently from Robb’s arms. Not long after, Rickon runs full speed towards Arya to gather up Shaggy, clutching the pup to his chest and all but dancing around in happiness. A smile curls her lips at the same time their father frowns.

Their lady mother is still watching from afar. Fear is clear on her face and, truly, Sansa cannot place blame onto her; to see a wolf taller than your own blood walking next to them would be frightening, but Sansa has not been frightened in a long time. Even Father has a tense set to his shoulders where he walks beside the direwolf, his hand resting lightly on the sword at his hip. The entirety of Winterfell has an air of trepidation in that moment but she does not break stride. She walks with her back straight, chin up, a sense of relaxation to her, her steps smooth and long and straight. Her father’s men are unnerved by the wolves and her siblings who share their blood, and her smile widens; it never fails to amuse her siblings and herself that everyone is so unsettled by them as they should be. In that moment, knowing that her next plan is about to come to fruition, Sansa can taste the phantom flavor of Ramsay’s blood in her mouth.

Next to her, almost inaudibly, Arya snorts and gently shoulders her, “Settle down, your smiling is going to make them piss themselves.”

“Oh, please, they would piss themselves if you looked into their eyes, Arya. It is not _that_ difficult.”

Arya bares her teeth in a grin and Sansa wholeheartedly returns it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a fyi: honestly none of the stark kids have a great mental state rn and also im really fond of a bloodthirsty sansa lmao
> 
> the beginning of the story is going to be a lil slow but it should start speeding up soon
> 
> arya's chapter should be up next but we'll see if that happens


	5. Chapter 5

Theon would never admit it outright, but the children of Lord Stark frighten him. Their knowing eyes and sharp tongues and strange behavior causes gooseprickles to spread upon his skin. Even the bastard sets him on edge. 

Robb treats him well enough, as if he were a close friend or a distant brother. They train together and go on hunts and sneak ale from the kitchens, but even then Robb is _off_. 

Theon has never once seen Robb Stark’s back, not even in the most relaxed of settings. Nor has he ever seen any of the Starks’ backs, save for Lord and Lady Stark. It had taken several years for him to notice, but now it stands out like fresh blood on fresh snow. Fear worms itself deep inside his belly. He should not be so frightened of children, all younger than him; it eats at his pride and he cannot stand it.

His pride is something all of the wolflings take pleasure beating out of him, whether it be physically or verbally. 

“Have a care. You could stand to be more modest, Theon.” Sansa, with her blue eyes sharp and her smile sharper and her tongue silver, had scolded and Theon avoided her for the following moon. Still, every time his eyes fall upon her, ice crawl up his spine like sharp nails. He knew not if she was more of a wolf bitch or a southron viper; mayhaps both, a direwolf with a white viper for a tail, a creature of night terrors. She has a look in her eyes that Theon has never known, as if she could unravel any man and her words would be his death. 

Arya, on the other hand, was full of a wolf’s blood. Brash and bold and feral. Theon had seen her change from a wild girl, never wanting to play a lady or sit still, to something _other_. He avoids her the most, but she is always there, lingering with grey eyes almost luminescent. He still remembers the mistake he had made of calling her the insult he had heard spread about her; _Arya Underfoot_ and _Arya Horseface_. The tipping point had been sliding in the added insult of _wolf bitch_. Theon still does not remember how she convinced him to go to the Godswood, nor how she had gotten him to fight her. All he knows is that he had the bruises and cuts for the next moon. When Lord Stark questioned him, Theon had caught a glimpse of the girl’s piercing eyes and he lied, boldfaced and terrified of the wolf turned human. 

The bastard Theon is content to ignore. Snow is merely unsettling, and not as nearly frightening as the girls. 

Bran is the one that scares him to his very bones. The boy makes him recall _what is dead may never die_. His eyes are dead, so dead, and only his siblings can draw any sort of life from him. He’s heard the common folk whisper of the ghosts of Winterfell being in the children, but even ghosts would be more alive than Bran. Of course, the boy has the same blood as his siblings, but it seems more like sharp ice than fierce fire. 

_Wildfire, the Wild Wolf_ Rickon Stark, who Theon avoids like no other besides Arya. The boy howls and snarls and has more than once bitten him. Everyone save his siblings are consistently perplexed. 

All of the wolflings know too much. Mayhaps the North remembers, but remembers _what_ , Theon does not yet know. 

And, without even knowing the source of the current shouts sounding, Theon knows that the Stark siblings have set something dangerous in motion. He leaves his bow and follows the rush of men towards the gate at a sedate pace, only to freeze with terror. Yellow eyes dart in his direction and he cannot fault the man next to him for pissing himself.

There, behind tall, pretty, petite Sansa Stark, stands a grey wolf taller than her. Theon’s heart stutters in his chest, his breath caught, ice dripping down his spine. 

“ _Fuck_.” He wheezes. He cannot move, even as Lord Stark approaches his children and the wolf— _direwolf_ , he realizes— moves in front of Robb and growls at the boy’s father. 

Even from here, Theon can see Robb putting his silver tongue to work. Undoubtedly, Lord Stark will accept whatever excuse his son offers to him. 

Theon finally takes a shuttering breath, clenching his fists to hide the shaking of his hands. 

The Stark children are treating the tufts of fur in their arms much too familiarly, and Theon thinks again, _what is dead may never die_ , for reasons he can not grasp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theon I, or: theon’s only a teenager but he’s so Done with this Shit
> 
> I set out to write an Arya chapter but this happened instead?? Tbh I literally had not thought of Theon before I started writing this lmao


	6. Chapter 6

A girl is Arya Stark of Winterfell, born again. A girl will not make the same mistakes twice.

Arya plots and prowls and meditates. Her skin is ill fitting over her, and she itches to break out, to become the _night wolf_ again. Winterfell is scared of her, but she cannot bring herself to care. She has more important things to do.

When Bran is finally awake to this new cycle, it seems so is Bloodraven. Ravens that do not belong to Winterfell flock and roost in the Godswood and on the Weirwood, eyes constantly watching. 

It is then that Arya makes her first move. She begins her letter _No One_ , and signs with a simple _A girl, reborn_. There is enough information to prove she is who she says she is, but not enough to show her entire hand.

She sits before the weirwood during the hour of the wolf, letter in hand. It is simple, choosing which raven to warg and send the image of the House of Black and White and which route to take. Arya blinks slowly, clearing the image, and the raven is before her. 

Swiftly, she ties the letter to its leg and the raven takes flight.

She continues on. Every three moons, a letter would be sent and a letter would be received. 

Arya still does not yet know what the Faceless Men had planned for her, in the beginning. Some things line up but, more often than not, they leave her frowning and wondering. It was almost as if they wanted her to remain _her_ , on occasion. On others, it seemed as if they wanted her to abandon her face and her past and her self.

Jaqen has visited Winterfell more than once since. Never in a face she recognizes, but she knows it is him, nevertheless. It seems no one else can. He can always tell when she spots him, and he gives her a strange little smile in return. After he leaves, she’ll find a gift resting upon her pillow without fail; how a servant never finds or moves it, she knows not. Mayhaps a piece of magic she is not aware of, she thinks. 

The first is a familiar black iron coin, and she is not surprised. Next is a dagger, Braavosi in origin, and she is mildly surprised. The third time she sees Jaqen in Winterfell, he leaves a sewing needle and a small vial and Arya _laughs_. 

He reminds Arya of a cat leaving dead birds at its master’s feet. Arya enjoys the game and, in turn, she begins gifting him things, as well. More often than not, it’s simple poisonous plants that are found only in the North, but he always takes what she leaves.

Sansa is the only one to notice anything amiss, and she merely shoots her a look and moves on, confident Arya can take care of herself. 

It inspires Arya to better train her father’s men. She sneaks in and out of Winterfell like a ghost, and it irritates her that they never notice. Finally, after making herself more and more noticeable, they catch her. It is disappointing how she has to crunch the snow beneath her shoes, snap twigs, be louder than she would be sleepwalking. Even as a child the first time, any of the Stark children would have seen or heard her. 

The process is long and boring and Arya very nearly drops the training before her siblings make it a game. Robb and Jon volunteer to assist the nightly watches and both Arya and Sansa try their hands at sneaking past. Arya is very rarely caught. It is only their warging abilities and seeing through different eyes that allow them to notice her. Sansa steadily increases her stealth and Arya feels pride for her sister. 

Sansa is hardened and calloused with a soft edge and Arya loves her all the more for it. Her sister primarily sticks to her bow, but she did not pass up Arya’s offer to teach her the dagger. It takes more time for Sansa to learn, but she learns nonetheless. Arya knows her sister has no less than three daggers on her at all times and it brings a smile to her lips. 

The years pass. Arya trains and trains and has no doubt that her stature will suffer for it. It was all the better to sneak around unnoticed, however. The years pass and all of her siblings gain scars and calluses and guarded looks, proverbial teeth and claws growing long and sharp. Sansa and Arya have long since been dismissed from Septa Mordane’s lessons, preferring to pester Maester Luwin for books on a wide assortment of topics. There is resistance at first, of course, but eventually they begin sitting in on Robb and Jon’s lessons. The more southron minded in Winterfell are apprehensive but they never voice their concerns where the Stark children can hear. Arya hears, nevertheless. 

She can see Sansa’s machinations start to come to life, and Arya waits patiently for hers to start. Winterfell’s ledgers slowly begin to show the increase of harvests that have a longer storage life, the increase of the fertility rate of cattle and sheep and larger wildlife. They will have plenty of woolen clothing and sustenance for the impending winter and a part of Arya rests easier. 

Another part of Arya, nearing the surface, jolts and howls and rushes through her veins like the burning of ice. Her siblings have the same reaction at the same time, and Arya _knows_. It is a blustering, wild warmth, one that they all know. When she closes her eyes that night, she dreams she is blind and mostly deaf, surrounded by the snuffling and warmth of her siblings and birth giver. She tilts her head up and opens her mouth, exposing small, sharp milk teeth, and _howls_. Her mother and four of her siblings join her. 

_She is home._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally finished Arya’s chapter!!!! Mostly a filler chapter with backstory
> 
> College is starting in a month from now so I’ll probably try to shell out as many chapters I can until then and after that I’ll definitely try to update once a month at least
> 
> I’m not sure who’s chapter is next but I’m about 95% sure I’m not going to write from Bran or Rickons POV ever lmao


	7. Chapter 7

It is past the hour of the wolf when Jon and his siblings finally converge in the Broken Tower, away from the rest of Winterfell. There is an odd heaviness to the air around them as they all settling. Robb had long since brought a beaten chair to their meeting room which all but became his official seat. Sansa is perched upon a broken desk, multiple planks under one of the legs to keep it from tottering, with her ankles crossed and her hands resting in her lap. Arya is leaning in a corner, both the window and the door within her sight, with Bran sitting on the ground next to her.

Jon closes the door softly as he steps into the room.

“They have all settled in. The kennelmaster is refusing to tread anywhere near the mother. Or us, for that matter.”

Arya rolls her eyes and Jon can see frowns on all of this siblings faces.

“Have they always been like this?” Robb asks, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, “They all followed me into a war without hesitation, and now children frighten them so?”

“Children, we are not.” Sansa says, “We have all seen more than they have, at this point, and it has changed us. They do not expect children to act as we do, and it is unnerving for them.”

Bran puts it to an end with a simple, “I frightened you when I came back, Robb. It is the same for them as for you.”

Robb’s frown deepens, but he does not press it.

“We should get word of the deserter within the week.” Jon starts, “And the announcement of Lord Arryn’s death should arrive in the same time frame.”

His brother nods and looks to Bran, “Have we any word of Baelish’s movements?”

“I have influenced several of his ravens and replaced multiple. Lord Baelish has more influence upon Lysa Arryn in this time than I thought. It is doubtless that she will need to die.”

Sansa sits up at this, a sharp look in her blue eyes, “Is there no way to rid her of his hold over her? I hold no love for her but the news of her death may quicken our lord grandfather’s.”

“I agree. Mayhaps if there is someway to place the Blackfish as his heir instead of Uncle Edmure?”

Jon can see Robb considering Arya’s idea and Sansa speaks for them all when she says, “No. Uncle Edmure would never agree to that.”

Arya concedes with a nod. 

He can see Bran staring at Sansa and her frown cuts deeper and deeper before she finally speaks. 

“We could set the Blackfish as his advisor. Lysa should be retreating from King’s Landing soon. I should be able to head her off before she reaches the Eyrie and ensure Baelish can no longer use her.”

Jon frowns, “And who will be Robert Arryn’s advisor if the Blackfish is at Riverrun? Who is to say that Baelish does not set one of his own in that position?”

“Lord Nestor Royce would most likely step up as Sweetrobin’s advisor.” Arya inputs and no one can find an obvious flaw in the plan. 

Robb nods, and sits back, tapping his fingers on his knees. 

“And what of the King? We cannot let Father become his Hand.”

“I will deal with that, Robb.” Sansa says, and Jon can see her lips twitching. 

Jon has no doubt that Sansa has a painful, drawn out death waiting for the Prince. Had he been told of his sister’s violent streak a decade ago, he would have laughed himself to tears. Robb, clearly, has not quite become accustomed to the new Sansa, and Jon cannot blame him. 

His brother is silent for several moments before he nods and moves onward.

“Arya? Do you have anything?”

“I intercepted a raven for Father. Uncle Benjen should be arriving in Winterfell within the moon’s turn and Jon and I will be going back to the Wall with him.”

Jon is mayhaps the only one unsurprised. She had accosted him days ago, wanting to go to the Wall for reasons he knew not. 

Robb’s shock manifests with a sharp spike of anger as he shoots out of his chair and advances toward him. 

“You are _not_ joining the Night’s Watch! I will not let you.” Robb barks as he crosses the room to grab Jon by the collar, “Why would you even _consider_ —“

“ _Robb_.”

Arya is already yanking Robb way from him, her lips twisted in a sharp frown. 

“He’s not, you idiot. He’s going because I asked.” She shoves him back toward his chair, “Now, sit _down_.”

Robb is slow to comply as he scowls at his youngest sister. Eventually, his proverbial hackles smooth and he sits. 

“Why do you want to go to the Wall, Arya?” Sansa has a knowing look in her eyes and Jon gets a chill down his spine. 

“I have gifts from the Faceless Men to pass to the Free Folk, to better fight the Others.”

It is chaos, once again. Robb is immediately out of his chair, and Jon would have done the same had he been sitting. Sansa’s brows are raised, obviously not quite expecting that answer, but Bran is unmoved. 

“ _Arya_!” Jon all but shouts, “They almost _killed_ you. When did you get in contact with them?”

“Since Bran came back.”

Jon’s breath catches. How had she been in correspondence with them for so _long_?

A dark look clouds Robb’s face as he asks, “Why are they helping us?”

“The very existence of wights is heresy to them.” Arya says, “They go against the doctrine of the Many Faced God and they don’t like that.”

What she does not say is _what dies should stay dead_ , but Jon hears it all the same.

“And what did you promise them in return?”

Arya glares at him as she bares her teeth, “Nothing! They want the White Walkers gone as much as we do.”

“ _Enough_.” Sansa’s strong voice is enough to bring silence, “What is done is done. There is no changing it.” Here, she turns to Arya, “How are you going to convince Father to let you go?”

Jon barely hears her as he turns over the thoughts in his head. He had _seen_ the scars Arya had gotten from the Faceless Men, scars that reminded him all too much of the ones he had gotten from the Night’s Watch. By all accounts, she should have died, and yet she still went back to them. 

He does not realize the meeting is over until Sansa rests a hand on his shoulder.

“I know,” She says softly, “But Arya can look after herself. You have to trust her.”

Jon lets out a breath he did not realize he was holding, and he nods. Sansa pats his shoulder and begins to move on before pausing and turning her head to look at him. 

“You should begin thinking of what you wish to ask Maester Aemon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: hates writing dialogue  
> also me: does that
> 
> Anyway I’m not super happy with this chapter but I thought of that one Arya line on my way home from work and I had to write it somehow


	8. Chapter 8

News of the deserter came and they rode. Their lady mother had long since grown tired fighting her daughters on being allowed to accompany their father to executions. Neither she nor Sansa had ever flinch or looked away from a man losing his head. That very fact froze quite a few of Lord Eddard Stark’s men to the bone.

As they ride, Arya is lost in thought. This deserter of the Night’s Watch will be the reason Jon will be allowed to visit the Wall with Uncle Benjen; there had been an increased amount of men fleeing the Wall, as well as more Free Folk sightings. Jon had already been expressing concern to Father and, thus far, he had agreed. The deserters and Free Folk travelling parties were why Uncle Benjen was heading to Winterfell before word of Baratheon’s ride North was even a thought in the drunk king’s mind.

Arya has no intention of asking permission to go North, as she had told her siblings. No doubt Father would never agree, despite how much freedom he has given her thus far. Freedom to train with swords, freedom to learn unladylike things nobility would look upon, freedom to disappear for a handful of days at a time; something she would use to her advantage. It had taken years to settle the nerves of her father and mother every occasion she disappeared, and they still worried when she was gone for more than five days.

It does not take much longer for them to reach the deserter. 

She listens, eyes trained on the man about to lose his head, as he speaks of legends come to life with fear clear in his eyes and shaky voice. Before Arya can say anything, Sansa speaks.

“Father,” Her sister interrupts, dismounting from her steed, “I would like to ask him questions.”

Their father is wearing the mask of the Lord of Winterfell, the lines of his face due to stress and duty rather than smiles and laughter. Arya can see in his eyes that he is unsettled as Sansa breezes past him without an answer to stop in front of the former Watchman.

The air around her sister is that of a Queen, and the deserter gazes upon her with fear.

“Tell me, have your Brothers also seen these wights? What can you tell us of them?”

The man stutters fiercely, but does not hesitate to tell Sansa of more and more men not coming back alive, only to never have their bodies recovered. Arya can tell Jon is tense and Robb is irritated even without facing them.

Sansa seems satisfied with his answers and turns to walk back to her horse.

“M’lady! M’lady, please, you must burn my body. _Please_ , don’t let them take me!”

She turns just enough to lock eyes with him, and inclines her head, “I will see to it. Be at peace, Watchman.”

Tension in the man is immediately relieved and he whispers his thanks before turning to their lord father.

“I am ready, m’lord.” And he lays his head upon the tree stump.

Lord Eddard Stark and his men and Theon are unnerved, but Arya’s thoughts turn elsewhere. Had wights been attacking the men of the Night’s Watch this early, besides the man before them? Come to think of it, had there been this many Free Folk sightings past the Wall, originally?

Arya nudges her horse closer to Jon, not taking her eyes off of the execution.

“Do you think he knows?”

Out of her peripheral, she can see Jon frown deeply.

“It is too soon to tell but…”

_But it appears so_ , he does not say. 

Bran speaks softly, almost too quiet to hear, “I will send my ravens to find him again. Mayhaps it was delayed.”

The Night’s Watch deserter has finally lost his head, and so Arya turns to face her younger brother, “If he is back and he sees them, he’ll come after you again, Bran. Is it worth the risk?”

Her brother does not answer, and it draws the conversation to a close. There’s a curling flame of anger in her breast at being dismissed and she has to force herself not to tighten her hands on the reigns. Pulling her thoughts away from Bran, she refocuses. 

Arya can see Father speaking to Sansa in a low voice. Sansa’s face is nearly emotionless, save for the slightest pinch of her lips and narrowing of her eyes. It seems her sister does not have the same need to be quiet.

“I am a woman of honor and I gave that man my word, Father. We will be burning his body. I shall do it myself if no one else will.”

She speaks for herself and her siblings without a second thought, “Sansa, we’ll help. I will start gathering kindling for the pyre.” And she spurs her mount forward in a canter across the hills. 

It does not take long for her to scrape together enough kindling and for her brothers to find enough wood to burn the body. Robb and Jon place the man’s body on the unlit pyre, while Sansa gently sets his head above his neck, murmuring a prayer too soft for her to hear. 

The Starks stand before the pyre as it is lit, blaze steadily growing and Arya smells the burnt flesh. It reminds her of King’s Landing, of the veritable sea of flames burning those who perished in the battle against the Long Night. The smoke and smell burns her eyes and nose, but still, she does not look away. Her face is blank. 

Jon’s hand settles on the top of her head and she leans into him. Grasps the hand Sansa’s extending in her own. Robb throws an arm around Jon’s shoulder and Arya can just barely see Robb’s other hand settle on one of Bran’s shoulders. 

No one disturbs them as they stand watch. Their father’s men and Theon ride back to Winterfell after the burning drags on for too long. Only Father remains, and he stands vigil away from them, eyes looking to his children rather than to the pyre, the lines on his face deep and shadowed by the flames. 

The sun has already set by the time the embers die out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lmao sorry this took so long, I had a lot going on! Had to housesit for a week with shitty WiFi, I’ve been dealing with my boss and trying to get everything settled for classes and it’s just. A lot. And also I’ve been trying to get my D&D character fleshed out for a campaign I’m about to start so that definitely took a bunch of my time
> 
> Anyway, another Arya chapter! I’m fairly certain I’ll be writing Sansa’s POV next


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for violence and character death this chapter, also mild Bobby B hate

Arya and the mother direwolf are gone for seven days and seven nights before Father realizes where, exactly, his daughter has gone. She left two days following Uncle Benjen and Jon’s departure and Sansa was surprised no one had made the connection thus far. So, now, Sansa and her siblings stand before their lord father. 

“You all knew.” It is not a question. “While the North may see the Watch as an honor, the southrons send their criminals to the Wall to protect themselves and you allowed your sister to go.”

It is the first time Lord Eddard Stark has spoken to them with any hint of anger since they all returned. Sansa is intrigued; what had finally pushed him far enough?

“Father, you know as well as we do that once Arya has decided on something, we could not stop her.” Robb speaks, a frown cutting his youthful face, “And she can protect herself. If one of the southrons looked at her for too long, she would take his eyes.”

Sansa speaks before her father can, “Jon and Uncle Benjen are with her, as well. I have heard there are quite a few honorable men at the Wall that would not let her come to harm, such as Lord Mormont and Maester Aemon.”

Father’s body tenses for a brief moment and Sansa comes to the surprised conclusion that he had not thought of the elderly Targaryen residing at the Wall when he allowed Jon to go North. 

“And what of the distance between Arya and your brother?”

Bran’s quiet voice breaks through, “She has already met with them. Direwolves have more stamina than mounts.”

Their father drags a hand over his weary face and finally breaks the news they were expecting.

“The King’s Hand is dead and he is riding North. Arya will not be back before that, will she?” It is more of a statement than a question.

“No,” Sansa says, “She will not.”

Father is quiet for a long time. 

Sansa stays silent and still, her hands clasped behind her back while Robb and Bran stand with their arms by their sides. She does not doubt a solid five minutes pass before he finally speaks again. 

“How did she know?”

She has never had a particularly close relationship with her father, in either life. It strikes her, however, that she is weary and tired of lying. Nevertheless, she continues. 

“She did not, Father. I have only just been hearing the news around Winterfell; there is no way Arya would have known.” The lie slides out of her lips like silk, smooth and gentle, and Father’s brow creases.

Sansa can see the second he gives up, his eyes closing and the lines surrounding them getting deeper. Robb and Bran can see it as well, and they easily slip through the doorway of the solar. She does not. 

“Had she known the King was coming, nothing would have changed. If anything, it would make her want to es— leave more urgently.”

Grey eyes bore into her and Sansa can see him trying to analyze her. 

“Why is that?”

“Robert Baratheon is quietly regarded as the type of man no woman wants as a husband, and that he is obsessed with a girl long dead. A girl long dead that Arya is constantly being compared to, in looks and in actions. King or not, he has proven his lack of honor more than a dozen times over.”

With that said, Sansa turns and leaves without another word. 

She can feel excitement curling in her chest and she is not surprised when Lady slips out of the kennel to walk by her side. Her excitement is palatable and she can see how nervous it is making the people she passes, but she pays them no mind. Sansa can once again taste the phantom blood of Ramsay Bolton coating her tongue and throat, can almost feel it dripping down her jaw and mingling with her hair. She can visualize the way his skin parted from his muscles and his muscles from his bones. Still, she feels no guilt. 

Her day passes in a similar haze of bloodlust, and by the time her family settling in for their nightly meal, Robb knows what is to come and he avoids looking at her. Sansa does not speak that night and, after her lady mother bids her a good night, she turns away from her door and _opens her eyes_. 

She is in a low brush, eyeing the convoy of large creatures. It does not take a long wait for the boy of gold, the one the red wolf wants to tear apart as much as the leech’s son, to break away from the pack, away from the large, scarred one stinking of the drink. He smells of cruelty and her lip curls over sharp teeth, saliva beginning to flood her mouth. She follows him. 

Waiting until he is far enough from the pack is not difficult, nor is it hard to pin him beneath her. Strong paws and sharp claws hold down the small arms of the lion and she snarls as he whimpers like a pup. She can feel the red wolf’s enjoyment, a warmth spreading through her chest as if it were a fire, and she snaps her teeth in front of his face to hear him cry out louder. It pleases her, and so she continues terrorizing him. Soon, though, she grows bored of her prey and leans down further, tilting his head up with her nose to have better access to his throat, a pulse beating high and fast visible under his skin. 

Anticipation rises and finally, _finally_ , she closes her teeth in the soft flesh of the lion’s throat and rips. 

She had ravaged his body and slipped away by the time the first screams start. Hidden and watching, she sees the lioness roar with grief, the smell of it spreading over the land. The lion’s father is more shocked than grieving, with just a hint of relief, which intrigues the red wolf. The hound, meanwhile, is acting much like the wolf had expected. 

It does not move the stag, which worries the wolf watching from her eyes. He sends the lioness and her cubs, both dead and alive, back the way they came. There are many raised voices and it makes her hackles rise. 

The stag continues North without the lions and, coming back to herself, Sansa _snarls_ in anger. 

Obviously they had overestimated Robert Baratheon’s empathy, even for the one thought to be his child. 

Despite the distance, Lady’s howl is audible from the kennel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly like. Fuck Robert Baratheon. He isn’t a great dude lmao and Sansa is So Pissed
> 
> I’m not entirely sure if I like how the warging scene turned out but it’s too late now lmao


	10. Chapter 10

Jon’s head snaps up as Arya’s loud cursing fills the campsite. The letter that one of Bran’s ravens had just delivered is crinkling beneath her clenched fist and Jon feels weary. 

“Arya?”

She seems to be having trouble finding words, so angry that she is. 

“Sansa _killed_ the little shit— fucking _Baratheon_ — still coming North!” Jon is only just barely able to make out the snarled words, but it was more than enough.

He is suddenly thankful that the campsite was barren, save them. Uncle Benjen and Yoren were hunting down dinner, while the two peasant boys he just barely remembered were rapers had long since been killed by Arya and the mother direwolf; the two men had not seemed nearly as upset as they ought to, in his opinion. Uncle Benjen had only seemed mildly put off, rather than the horror that would have filled the men of Winterfell.

Even with the distance between his sister and the hunting men, Jon would not be surprised if they heard portions of her rant. 

“What is the plan?” He asks as he rises from his seat before the fire, patting both the mother direwolf and Ghost on their heads before heading toward his sister, “We have to continue on to the Wall. Are they calling us back?”

Arya grimaces and shakes her head, “No, no, not yet. Father might. He called Robb, Bran, and Sansa to his solar to ask questions the other day, and he did not seem pleased.”

A shaky breath hisses through his lips and he barely manages to keep from cursing like Arya had moments before. They all had known it would be a matter of time for their father to give in and interrogate them. He had been fine to leave them unbothered for years, but it seemed to have become too much to not question after the direwolves and the ever more clear secret keeping. Jon felt guilt about it, yes, but explaining their circumstances would never be an easy feat and he was not certain if their father would ever get the entire story from them, nor if he would even believe them.

“What are we to do?”

Arya stalks past him and tosses the letter into the fire, “Continue. I have dragonglass to deliver and we both have an Uncle to save, and you have a sword to get.”

Jon frowns down at her, “Commander Mormont would not give up Longclaw to a man not of the Watch.”

She turns from the fire, shadows dancing across her face, “Then we will be one sword short in the war to come, unless you plan to melt down Ice?”

“ _No_ ,” Jon snaps and regrets it immediately, though Arya does not acknowledge he did. 

“Ice is hardly suitable for combat,” Arya says, settling herself next to Ghost and the yet unnamed female, “It may be best to reforge it. Unless Maester Aemon has knowledge of more Valyrian steel swords and where they might be.”

Jon is quiet for a long moment, the only noise being the crackling fire and the whispering winds. Without speaking, he sits next to his sister, and Ghost quickly claims his lap as his resting spot. It is comforting, having the direwolf so close to him, and Jon rests his hand on the pup’s head. 

He lets out a breath, “There is no guarantee that he will know.”

Arya bumps her shoulder against his arm, “Better to take the chance than let it pass by. Even if he does not, he will still know of some Valyrian steel, and just how much of it the Citadel has for their chains.”

“Is that not something we could have asked Maester Luwin?” Jon asks, nudging her back and relaxing as she rests her head against his shoulder.

He can feel her head shaking against him and he opens his mouth to respond, only to stop when he hears the crunch of snow under boots. Jon tenses, but Arya is lax and makes no movement for any weapon. He forces himself to settle, slowly untensing muscles. 

Uncle Benjen appears through the copse in front of them, Yoren following close behind. There is a small buck slung over the man’s shoulders. Jon is about to move Ghost from his lap, but Arya stays his hand and stands. 

“I’ll help. You stay with Ghost.” She tells him before turning to the other direwolf, placing her hand on her neck, “Go, hunt. There will not be enough for you tonight.”

The direwolf nudges her head against Arya’s forearm before standing, towering over his sister. It’s almost unsettling, how that big of a creature can make barely a sound. She disappears into the trees, the only evidence of her ever being there the prints in the snow. 

Arya continues. It does not take long for the animal to be skinned and strung up to be cooked. 

It is quiet, almost uncomfortably so, as they eat. Uncle Benjen looks strangely pensive and Yoren’s eyes keep flickering between the three of them. Jon tries his best to ignore it, focusing on his meal and tearing off small bits for Ghost to eat. It’s when they all finish that Uncle Benjen shoots Yoren a look, clearly dismissing him.

They wait. Jon and Arya exchange a look as Yoren gathers a pack and heads into the forest. Uncle Benjen does not speak until the man is far out of earshot. 

While Benjen has the typical Stark look, long face and dark hair and grey eyes, he has never looked more like Father than in this moment, lips creased into a frown and brow drawn together. His grey eyes meet Jon’s first, and then settles on Arya. 

“What war to come, Arya?”

Jon’s breath is caught and ice drips down his spine.

_Fuck_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Benjen is torn between being “they’re barely worse than Lyanna” and “I’m too fucking old for this shit”
> 
> Anyway, plans are falling apart and the kids are about to throw caution to the wind


	11. Chapter 11

Benjen Stark considers himself to be a handful of things; a sworn Brother of the Watch, a proud Uncle of six nieces and nephews, and a put upon younger brother, to name a few. He has long since become used to the situations his siblings could cause, though Lyanna inciting a war to overthrow the ruling family by running off in secret was certainly much worse than Brandon’s sleeping around ever could have been. Even the strange dreams he had been plagued with for a decade were becoming normal for him. Arya and Jon telling him things he had seen in his sleep were true, and yet to come, without even attempting to outright lie, instead to lie by omission, nearly outranked Lyanna’s contribution to a war. 

He drags a hand over his mouth and stares across the fire into eyes similar to his own. He had not suspected that investigating his niece’s raised voice would lead to… _this_. He cannot help but wonder if it had been planned.

Benjen had long since known something was off with Lyanna’s son and Ned’s gaggle of children. Ever since they were young, and their eyes looked too much like those from the Watch. The girls were sharper than his sister had ever been, enough that if one was not careful, they would surely be cut on the refined edges. The boys, too, were sharp, eyes and tongue and teeth and claws, like their sigil.

“Why—“ He coughs, throat dry, and takes a quick swig from his waterskin, “Why come to the Wall this early? You said the Others did not come until later.”

His nephew frowns, looking almost too much like Ned to handle, “There has been an… increase of activity. More Free Folk are coming South, and there have been more deserters from the Watch, more than last time.”

Arya is staring intensely at him, the fire light carving shadows under her cheekbones, exaggerating the hollows under her eyes, and it reminds Benjen of a skull picked clean. Just as he is about to look away from his niece, she speaks. 

“We have additional business at the Wall, and past. I have supplies to deliver to the Free Folk, and Jon had a more… _personal_ matter.”

Whichever expression fell upon his face was clear and Jon’s fists and jaw clench, in contrast to Arya’s blank visage.

“You knew. You _knew_ and you never told me.”

His nephew sounds like the boy he should be and not the man he was. Benjen hates both himself and his other self in that moment, Ned’s plea for secrecy be damned. Jon’s lifelong hurt has come to the surface and no one is suffering but the boy who the secret was kept from.

Benjen may not be as honorable as his older brother, but at least he can own up to his mistakes. 

“I did.”

Arya’s hand on Jon’s shoulder is the only thing keeping him sitting, Benjen is sure. As if responding to his anger, the larger direwolf opens her bright eyes and narrows in on him. She reminds Benjen almost uncomfortably of his long dead sister, and he reluctantly pulls his gaze from hers. 

“I did,” He repeats, “Because Ned asked it of me. I knew the first moment I saw you that you were Lyanna’s. I’ve been arguing with him for years to tell you, Jon. You deserved to know, and I don’t expect you to forgive me.”

He’s agitated, Benjen can see. Arya speaks to him, too quietly to hear, and Jon gives a rough nod. His nephew stands and taps his thigh before speaking. 

“Ghost, to me.”

The pup, if the swiftly growing direwolf could even be called that now, stood without a sound and found Jon’s side. 

Just as Jon is about to walk away, he hesitates and turns to face him. There’s an expression of past regret on his face and Benjen feels as if his sister’s son is remembering a time in his other life.

“If I can forgive Father, I can forgive you, Uncle. I just need time.”

Something in Benjen unclenches and he breathes. 

“Come back safely, son. We will not leave until you’re back.”

Benjen cannot process the emotions on Jon’s face before he turns away and disappears, and he’s left feeling as if he has just seen a ghost. 

It’s silent as, eventually, Yoren makes his way back to camp, having seen Jon leave. The night grows colder and darker. His fellow Brother and his niece make conversation that Benjen is content to let slide through one ear and out of the other. 

The large direwolf makes her way over to him, about an hour after his nephew leaves them, and rests her head in his lap. He scratches her behind the ear idly, looking on past his niece stealing and the ensuing verbal match between her and Yoren. 

He relaxes as, three hours after he left, Jon returns no worse for wear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boy howdy has so much shit happened recently lmao
> 
> Anyway I refuse to believe that Benjen didn’t know anything
> 
> (And side note: I can’t believe I have to write this but there won’t be any incest in this story besides allusions to previous relationships. And speaking of relationships. Probably won’t include any in general)


	12. Chapter 12

Everything starts to unravel and Sansa drops her guise, drops her sweet smiles that don’t reach her eyes, drops trying not to unsettle those around her. It is rash and not thought out and on a whim, but as much as she is a woman grown in mind, her body is still that of a child, and that has more influence than she and her siblings would ever admit.

They have all been going about this the wrong way, she realizes as she stalks through Winterfell, head held high and red hair streaming behind her like a banner. She had tried to approach their issues the Southron way, the way she had picked up from Cersei and Littlefinger, staying quiet and playing the vapid girl she had not been for many years. Sansa is a predator, a wolf, no longer the prey with wide eyes and hammering heart, and it is far past the time she acted it, acted like the Northern woman she was.

It is like shedding a second skin, the way she drops her mummer’s farce. A soft breath of relief, like a weight lifted. Sansa can feel a multitude of Bran’s Eyes on her. His birds fall silent when she comes back to herself, holding herself as a Queen rather than as a child playing at one. There is a quiet approval from him, draping her shoulders like a cloak. It fills her chest with an emotion she cannot name, easing her breaths, and it makes Sansa feel like a woman reborn.

She can almost imagine Arya’s too sharp, tooth baring grin. Her sister always did enjoy it when she let go of her inhibitions and simply was. Arya would tease her if she were here, using epithets such as _Red Wolf_ and _the Wolf Queen_ and similar names to dig and crawl under her skin, and Sansa would just as quickly fire back with a simple _So says the Night Queen_. 

Arya, by far, has the best reaction to her bloodthirsty nature, one that has only increased since returning. Bran would merely observe with a hint of a smile, never to voice disagreement. Jon was oft times apprehensive, but would generally acquiesce when she was within reason. The only one to put up protest was Robb, in a way Sansa thought hypocritical; he could be just as inhuman with his viciousness as she. 

Even now, as she passes by her eldest brother and Theon sparring, Robb gazes at her with a sense of disquiet about him, mirroring the same expression on the boy next to him. Sansa supposes she could understand his unease; in their last life, she had been but a mere child, eyes set on the South in naivety. He woke from his death to find her a Queen, cold and occasionally cruel. It had been years, now, since she had returned, but still he is apprehensive. It was bordering on too much; she had been through many a trials and tribulations, countless that Robb knew not, and yet he still judges her. There is a feeling of contention in her heart that she knows will never fade.

Drawing further away, Sansa turns her eyes forward. She makes quick work of stalking through the halls of her home, slipping into her father’s solar.

He is not yet in the room, but Sansa had not expected him to be. It would be an hour more before he came.

Sansa strides ahead to take a seat, sinking into the worn leather of the chair behind the desk. It is not the same chair nor even the same desk that she had when she was Queen, but it reminds her of the lost time nonetheless. Without truly meaning to, she begins shifting through the papers; reports of her hound coming from further South, statements of how much grain each hold in the North grew. Even just reviewing records, Sansa is reminded just how quickly she had stopped deifying her father in this life.

She knows that both she and her siblings had elevated their father to a pedestal far above his actual standing, in their first life. He was the second son, less favored than the heir, never expected to lead or rule and yet, in the matter of a day, he was tasked with both. Eddard Stark is not the smartest, nor the most competent, but Sansa loves him all the same, even if he can be a fool.

The papers do not take long to read, and finally she relaxes in the chair, elbows planted on the arms and her fingers interlaced, and she _waits_.

Father walks through the door exactly an hour after she had, and starts at the sight of his elder daughter waiting for him. Sansa likens his expression to a man cornered by a starving wolf, weary and on edge.

“Sansa…” His lips are curved down and the lines upon his face are much deeper than they should be for a man his age.

She leans back, fingers still intertwined and ankles crossed, and she gives a ghost of a smile.

“I would like to explain a few things, Father.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so uh. college is Kicking My Ass and taking seven classes my first semester was a Bad Idea(tm). sorry if the tenses this chapter are off, my english professor has been making us switch tenses Each Goddamn Essay and my brain is Fried. the only reason this is ready so early is bc classes were canceled bc of hurricane dorian lmao
> 
> anyway i have lots of thoughts about ned and how hes actually kinda mediocre compared to a lot of people??? i mean. i like the dude. but still
> 
> i almost had sansa say "i suspect you have questions" but then i realized that fucking dragon age beat me to that.
> 
> (also just realized this could be taken the wrong way: the only reason sansa calls arya the night queen is bc she killed the guy)


	13. Chapter 13

Ned is weary and drawn by the time he makes it to his solar. He had only just gotten word from Robert that a feral hound had ravaged his first born, killing him. Ned had nearly collapsed with a guilty relief until his eyes caught on something further down the letter.

_I sent the woman and the children back to deal with the funeral proceedings._

He may have thought Robert to be another brother, but this… If Robb was killed, Ned knew he would do everything in his power to put him to rest, as was his duty as Father and Lord Stark. For the King to not at the very least postpone his journey North after his firstborn, the crown prince, was torn apart by a hound…

It is not the first time Ned reconsiders his feelings for the man he grew up alongside. Though, until now, it has always been prompted by something one of his children has said, save for the overarching echo of _dragonspawn_. Robert Baratheon is a point of contention with his children, that much is clear, though some of what they say confuses him. Once, he had heard Arya snarling about _that fat drunk of a King_. The last he had seen Robert, the man had been as fit and muscular as a war horse; sure, the man had always liked the drink a bit too much, but not nearly enough to be labeled a drunkard. How his daughter, who had never met the King, managed to confuse him with a heavier set drunkard, Ned knew not. Then, there were Sansa’s words from before. Something about his daughter had set a chill running down his spine, then. The way she spoke of _the type of man no woman wants as a husband_ seemed… too personal, almost. Much too personal for a child that had never been married.

Ned lets out a troubled breath and he enters his solar, only to meet his eldest daughter’s eyes, full of an unholy, predatory light. There is an edge to her that he had not yet seen more than a glimpse of and it unnerves him more than he would like to admit.

“Sansa…”

His daughter leans back with all the composure and poise of a Queen, acting as though his solar belonged to her. Her smile is sharp and Ned feels unease curling deep inside.

“I would like to explain a few things, Father.”

Something inhuman is inhabiting the skin of his eldest daughter, he thinks, or mayhaps all of his children. Ned is not blind to the way they unsettle those around them; if anything, he is hyper aware of sharp eyes and snarls and general _wolfishness_. This talk was long coming, and Ned knew it was only a matter of time after his children brought direwolves back into Winterfell.

His heart sits heavy in his chest as he seats himself before his daughter, feeling her eyes take in his every move. The Tully blue is bright and focused and so unlike his lady wife’s that it sets him on edge.

He can only imagine the amount of heckling he would have gotten from Lyanna for being unsettled by a child, and his own at that. The light in Sansa’s eyes is a call back to his sister, to his brother, but more feral than that still.

Ned pushes the thoughts of the dead aside to focus on the living before him.

“‘ _When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives_.’” Sansa starts, eyes never leaving his, “‘ _Summer is the time for squabbles. In winter, we must protect one another, keep each other warm, share our strengths_.’ This, Father, is what you told Arya in King’s Landing months from now, and this is I, Sansa Stark, survivor of the second Long Night, Queen in the North, sharing our strengths with you.”

His breath escapes him in his shock, but his daughter continues, unencumbered.

“I know not if the Gods, New or Old or Many-Faced, have brought this burden upon us. We have tried to not change much for fear of causing that which we cannot predict, but…” Here, her lips curl with a hint of derision, “Certain issues are coming to the surface and I have decided that it has gone too far.”

She is speaking in riddles, a Southron flavor to her words. As far as his daughter has decided to be truthful, she is still speaking pretty, perfumed words that mean nothing to him.

“Enough.” He says, frowning, “Speak plainly, Sansa.”

Emotion is swept from her face like prints in a snowstorm, leaving behind an icy mask. She tilts her head every so slightly, eyes cold as she regards him through her lashes.

“Robert Baratheon has sent word that the crown prince has been killed and that he is continuing North.”

His heart drops. Ned knows he had been the only one to read Robert’s letter; not even Maester Luwin had seen it, and yet here Sansa was…

“Did you read it, Sansa?” There was no feasible way for her to have read it; the seal was unbroken when it had found his hand.

“No,” She states, and Ned knows that she is speaking the truth, “I needn't read letters of something I was present for.”

Ned likes to think of himself as a rational man, one willing to think a situation through before reacting adversely, but he finds himself standing in a rush. The wooden legs of chair scrape against the floor with an awful noise. His daughter does not flinch or otherwise respond, merely looking at him through her lowered lids.

Sansa speaks before he can.

“I was the one who killed Joffrey Waters, in mind, if in the absence of body.”

The setting sun shining through the windows of his solar casts otherworldly shadows upon his daughter’s face, twisting her features into something not human.

His mind is caught on Sansa’s words, turning them over and over again, trying to understand. She seems to take pity on him.

“Tell me, Father, what knowledge have you of wargs and skinchangers?”

And Ned sinks back into his seat with a sense of dread. Vague, long muffled stories from Old Nan play inside of his head and he clenches his jaw. He does not want the information presented to him, but he knows he has no choice.

“Tell me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: says im never going to write a ned chapter  
> me, pulling my hair out: writes a ned chapter
> 
> anyway this past week ive had a midterm, 2 test, 6 quizzes, and 5 papers due, on top of it being my birthday on wednesday and going to the maryland renn faire on saturday.
> 
> also uh. i rewrote sansa and neds convo five godsdamn times and ngl i almost just kept the first draft that had sansa being a salty little shit. im still not entirely in love with this chapter but lmfao oh well

**Author's Note:**

> slow/erratic updates because college is a bitch lmao. who knows! i might update two times in a week or once a month! both have happened


End file.
